


three little words

by gryffind0rk



Category: Lizzie Bennet Diaries
Genre: F/M, Future Fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-20
Updated: 2013-02-20
Packaged: 2017-11-29 21:45:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,242
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/691811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gryffind0rk/pseuds/gryffind0rk
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The three times Lizzie Bennet is about to say The Three Words to a certain William Darcy.</p>
            </blockquote>





	three little words

**Author's Note:**

> Again just sharing with AO3 though previously posted on fanfiction.net. Kudos and comments are still highly encouraged :)

_[lizzie]_

**i.**

"I feel horrible," she coughs into the phone.

"Would you like me to take the rest of the day off?" He offers, and she wants to accept but she remembers the reports he's been behind for a week because of her.

"No, I don't want your aunt calling me and accusing me of interfering with you and your work again." She says, obviously referring to The Phone Call, to which he chuckles lightly.

"Alright, if you really are not feeling well, just call and I'll be over hastily."

"Don't worry about me, I'll live, now go work."

After a few seconds of silence on the phone, they say goodbye. She curls up in bed, looking out at the dark sky, and hugs a pillow, wishing she felt his warmth and strength instead of the coolness and softness of it.

A few hours seem like a few minutes to her, and she wakes up when she hears the doorbell. She coughs as she gets up, opens the door to find nothing but a tray of food on the floor: some ginger ale in a can; a warm roll; and a container of soup.

She takes it inside, closes the door behind her, and sits on her couch to read the little card.

_Sending _love__ _sincerest hopes to your feeling better_

She laughs to herself: at the 'love' being crossed out (she knows he doesn't want to say it first after the first time he'd tried to confess his feelings), at the fact that she knows it's him merely by his words…

Mostly because of the soup: how it's chicken noodle (her favorite when she's sick); how the noodles aren't the noodles she grew up with, but in the shape of _bowties_.

She thinks to herself The Three Words as she sips the soup, feeling infinitely better.

* * *

**ii.**

She turns the knob, and the water sprays out as she puts her hair in a bun to prevent it from getting wet.

(He never understood why she wouldn't wash her hair every single day, no matter how many times she tried to explain it wasn't good for the hair and that she'd have hair when they were old and he would be bald. "Does that imply we'll grow old together?" He asked before she started blushing.)

She gets into the shower as she hears a knock from outside, which she knows to be him.

"Lizzie?" He calls from the tiny living room.

"SO I PUT MY HANDS UP, THEY'RE PLAYING MY SONG, THE BUTTERFLIES FLY AWAY… NODDING MY HEAD LIKE YEAH, MOVING MY HIPS LIKE YEAH…"

"...Lizzie?"

She continues to sing it out loud—so loud she doesn't hear the door opening, and someone sneaking into the bathroom to flush the toilet while she's in the shower.

"YEAAAAAAAH, IT'S A PARTY IN THE – HOLY MOTHER THAT IS FU—"

The door opens to reveal a very displeased redhead in a bathrobe, staring daggers at the man sitting on top of her bed.

"What was that for? You don't think that song's particularly … _good for dancing_?" She smirks, thinking back to the time he'd too vaguely asked her to dance to that same song.

"No, I merely didn't enjoy your screeching rendition of it." He replies sarcastically.

She gives him a face, before going back into the bathroom to dress up. A couple minutes later, she comes out wearing her pajamas, and collapses on the bed, looking at him, who's looking around the tiny room.

"What?"

"Nothing," he answers, "This apartment … it's very cozy."

"Just cause you live in a freaking castle doesn't make it any better than my apartment." She replies defiantly.

"Well, my _castle_ has showers which don't change temperatures once someone decides to use the toilet."

"I like this apartment, despite its temperature-changing showers."

He lies down beside her on the bed, facing her. She can see the stubble growing along his jaw, the soft dimples in his cheeks showing as he speaks.

"I'm simply stating that perhaps if _you lived_ in my 'castle', you would be free to take all the showers you wanted, without having to worry about suffering from third degree burns."

"William Darcy, are you asking me to move in with you?"

"That depends, seeing how much you like this apartment—" he begins to say before she punches him playfully on the shoulder.

"I'll suppose that to be a _yes_ to moving in."

"If you flush the toilet while I'm in the shower one more time, consider yourself single."

"No promises."

She's about to say it, but settles for kissing him on the lips quickly.

* * *

**iii.**

It's silent, as it usually is with them, but she likes it. It's comfortable.

It's silent enough to hear the words being said in her mind as her eyes trace the lines of her book, and the pages being turned.

She looks up from her book, sees him across from her, and he offers a soft smile from his book.

"What are you reading?" she asks, looking at the book—spine cracked, the pages yellowed and corners folded down. She liked those books; it showed they were well loved and given to the best possible owners.

"It's a collection of Whitman's poems," he replies, showing her the cover.

"Let me guess, first-edition?" She asks teasingly.

He catches her tone, but shakes his head. "Actually, no. It was a present from my father to my mother when he proposed to her."

"Whitman was her favorite poet," he explains, "When I was younger, I couldn't speak publicly. I forgot what I was to say and couldn't speak. I was a bit inept socially, unlike some people. She forced me to read them to her out loud every single day. My phobia of public speaking wasn't cured, but it certainly got better. It was how my mother and I spent time together before she died."

He looks down solemnly, as she looks at the expression on his face. She could tell he hadn't read out loud since.

"Read to me," she whispers.

Before he can protest, she's on her back, lying on the couch, her eyes closed.

She smiles to herself as he coughs before reciting, " _Passing stranger! You do not know how longingly I look upon you. You must be he I was seeking, or she I was seeking, (it comes to me as of a dream,) I have somewhere surely lived a life of joy with you,"_

His voice is clear and deep, moving through and around the words, pausing and continuing at the right time.

" _All is recall'd as we flit by each other, fluid, affectionate, chaste, matured, You grew up with me, were a boy with me or a girl with me, I ate with you and slept with you, your body has become not yours only nor left my body mine only,"_

_He could make any piece of writing sound like poetry_ , she thinks.

" _You give me the pleasure of your eyes, face, flesh, as we pass, you take of my beard, breast, hands, in return, I am not to speak to you,"_ he continues, " _I am to think of you when I sit alone or wake at night alone, I am to wait, I do not doubt I am to meet you again, I am to see to it that I do not lose you."_

She whispers The Three Words softly to herself, low enough that he doesn't hear.


End file.
